Degradation
by marsh166
Summary: Spyro is lost to the world. Seven years have passed since the events of Stormfront, where Spyro sacrificed himself for the greater good. What can be done when everyone believes him to be dead? Especially when evil still plots for the downfall of the dragon world.
1. Chapter 1

**Here it is. I strongly urge anyone who has not read Stormfront to read that first. You'll be completely lost without it. **

**Chapter 1: Concurrency **

_It is where we start,_

_A hundred miles apart. _

_You had my heart. _

_You tripped and stumbled,_

_And we watched as you crumbled._

_Then you depart. _

_When lives collided,_

_You decried._

_You played your part._

_With your last breath,_

_You waited for death._

_To bring two together,_

_You brought another two apart._

The place where hope goes to die.

A lone dragon flew over the vast crystal fields. Dark storm clouds blotted out any rays of sun, and light drops of rain fell. Here and there, a lance of purple lightning would jolt down from the forsaken heavens, striking somewhere below.

The dragon flew on, shining red scales glimmering in pale blue and purple light. Very few dragons that had laid eyes on the looming black fortress had ever returned. Even fewer came to this place of their own free will. Yet this dragon flew on, undaunted by the massive fortress that had no rival. The distant villages and their inhabitants still whispered its name under their breaths.

Here at Concurrent Skies. Cynder's lair still sat tall and as an oppressive remnant of the past years of fear and malice. Years ago, its walls were patrolled by battalions of apes and their mounts, the feared dreadwings, and its halls guarded by technological monstrosities. Finally, at the fortress's dark peak, the black dragoness herself had brooded: the Terror of the Skies, Cynder. Now her throne room was empty, cast down from her high seat.

A story all too familiar to the young adult dragon that now flew to the dark keep.

The dragon alighted in front of the massive, ridged black gate that stood slightly ajar. He looked over the structure, eyeing all the empty parapets and towers.

He thought back to a time when his favored companion would have cracked a smart joke and asked if anyone was home, but now he was alone, forsaken, not unlike the very castle and parapets before him.

The shimmering dragon took a seat and closed his eyes. His scales lost their flame inspired sheen, and then the red, oranges, and yellows darkened, homogenizing to a singular color, a deep royal purple. A line of fainter purple scales marred his flank, scar tissue from a deep wound long healed. He set his small satchel down a distance from the front gate next to one of the large crystals that grew there.

Padding forward, he passed through the gate and into the mammoth fortress. Inside the vast entry hallway was the same floor pattern as he remembered, and long, black stone spires abutting the walls reached high into the ceiling. The rhomboid crystals embedded in the walls that provided light still functioned, albeit dimmer than he remembered them being. A thick layer of dust coated the floor, and every step left a telltale paw print.

He moved down the hall until the columns parted, and revealed three hallways, one with stairs leading up, one continuing straight ahead to a huge iron double door, and the last led to a descending staircase.

"Work my way up from the bottom, I suppose." He spoke to himself, his voice hauntingly echoing down the empty hall. Then the purple dragon took the descending staircase. The steps were made of the same black marble and wound their way down into the depths. Coming to the first landing he paused, giving the hallway that broke off a swift glance before continuing his descent.

After a few turns a stench began to fill the air, an age old smell of decay and wet rot. He continued down, deeper into the castle until finally he reached the last landing. Instead of an open entryway like the rest it was barred over with iron. An iron rod door provided entry large enough for an adult dragon to fit through easily. The purple dragon pushed the bars, and the door swung open with an obnoxious creaking.

The dungeons. The stench redoubled its efforts to make the purple dragon gag, but he pressed-forward, the faint patter of his heavy paws echoing down the hall.

A row of iron doors on each side lined the hallway, each with a small iron window for the jailers to look in upon their unfortunate captives. The lone dragon passed the cells; a few iron doors were open revealing what lay in store for the captives. The rooms were barely large enough for an adult dragon to remain crouched. Heavy chains connected shackles for the head, legs and tail to the floor and walls, designed for holding the occupant in submission. He could spot the occasional remains, brown stained bones littered and withering within the cells.

After passing several more cells, the golden horned dragon came to an oak door with a small, rectangular barred window near the top. He pressed a paw against the wood and the door creaked open on its rusty hinges, the sound echoing down the cellblock. Inside was a wooden desk with many old faded papers, scrolls, and writing materials. Shelves extended from the floor to the ceiling on three of the walls, each one filled with various dust covered jars, vials, and flasks. Many of the labels were peeling or gone entirely.

Spyro moved to the desk and looked over the notes, giving each one a quick glance. The first was a pair of orders.

"_Prisoner 84 not to be fed for six days."_

The next was harder to make out, several parts having rotted through: "_One part Athelas to two parts Mistress's venom to cure… intoxication of…causes extreme pain. All orders of venom must be requested of the Mistress personally, once information is gleaned from the subject."_

Next was list of prisoners: _"Prisoner 76: Incoherent Wreck, Prisoner 77: Terminated, Prisoner 78: Resisting information gathering efforts." _The list read on for many more that he did not bother to read.

He looked back to the jars and other glassware located around the room. Leaves, liquids, powders; roots were assorted inside.

The purple dragon had seen enough. With a snort of disgust he turned and left the room, closing the door. Then, placing his snout to the bars he let loose a stream of purple flames into the room. The intense heat soon began to melt the bars and char the oak. Black smoke then began to pour from the window. The purple dragon turned and quickly cantered down the hallway, and left the lowest pit of hell to itself.

The next landing above proved uneventful, mostly being storerooms for rations, water, barrels of some ape ale that made his nostrils cringe at the smell and a host of other miscellaneous items.

When he exited the wafts of smoke that had been billowing from below had thinned down to trails of vapors.

He moved up the flight and found another iron door, with recesses in the iron that provided handholds. Opening the door he found that the crystals that provided light here had gone out, leaving complete darkness. Taking a moment, he felt where the currents of electricity would flow most easily within the marble. Pinpointing several of these, he sent a jolt of current to each.

The crystals began to show signs of life, growing from just a faint glow and specks of light. They began to brighten and grow. One of them exploded showering the floor in clear shards, however the rest lit up the room filling the chamber with dazzling light.

Carved from the very rock, benches and long tables ran the length of the chamber and provided seating. Goblets and cracked plates still sat here and there, covered in unappetizing rotten scraps, and platters covered in dust sat with no warm meal. Near the back he could see into the kitchens that fed the horde of apes. Great furnaces stood tall and continued into the ceiling above. Cutlery still hung from racks dangling from the ceiling, and great chopping blocks still had the stains of blood and cleaver marks.

The dragon passed this room over, and continued upward. He returned to the first landing and shoved the oak door open with his paw. Rows of metal bunks stretched out to the black wall. Small wooden chests sat at the foot of each bunk, and brown tattered sheets covered the beds. Having no desire to explore a room where a hundred apes slept he returned to the main corridor above him.

The great dragon now chose the middle corridor, and followed it, the pattering of his paws the only sound. When he reached the door he paused, the scales on the back of his neck beginning to tingle. The silence of the fortress felt deafening. Nothing stirred, yet he couldn't shake the feeling of a hidden, silent malice, long waiting for something to lash out at.

The purple dragon closed his eyes, casting his senses into the next room and exploring with the elements at his command, feeling the stone, the moisture, the temperature of the air. Nothing seemed off, yet his scales still tingled. Closing his eyes he then let the purple light of convexity flow through him and again felt for the hidden threat. He locked in on a particular section of the next room, and standing on his hind legs, purple convexity glowing from his eyes he shoved the iron doors open with great force. They clanked as the gears above turned, and hinges creaked shaking the entire fortress.

Stepping inside, great marble pillars stretched on either side down the hall and into a cathedral like ceiling high above, ornamented with ridges and valleys. A dusty, moldy red carpet led down the center aisle, to a dais made of the same black marble. A pile of brown bones sat before the steps leading up to the black throne for a dragon crowned with spires. The room opened up to a balcony with three arched windows behind the dais, letting in fresher air. Lightning flashed in the dark purple clouds in the distance, and the drizzle of rain that always fell in this land continued.

Spyro's sharp hooked claws clacked on the floor as he stepped further into the room.

A mad shriek echoed through the chamber, and then turned to high pitched cackling laugh. Spyro paused, preparing for the onslaught of whatever evil was to come.

The bones at the foot of the dais began to rattle. Then they began to float, dust falling off and caught up in the whirlwind as the bones flew about. Coming together they began to take shape, legs, torso, arms and finally the skull of an ape perching itself on top. It stood as tall as the purple dragon, only a little shorter than what he remembered of Gaul himself.

With another shriek it charged the purple dragon, bare hands reaching out to grasp and crush the life from him out of jealously for a living being.

The purple dragon stood still, hardly concentrating on the howling ape before him. Passing the first set of pillars the undead ape picked speed and leaped into the air, teeth and bones chattering. It quickly reached the top of its leap and began its descent upon what appeared to a helpless dragon. Howling a mad cackle of glee it reached out for the dragon's neck.

It never had the chance. Great jaws of black marble rose from the floor and slammed closed like a sea predator upon helpless prey. The explosion of sound shook the pillars and fortress to the core. Dust rained from the ceiling, the red carpet sticking out like a hungry tongue hanging loosely from the mouth of the beast. The stone slabs then began to grind over each other back and forth, crushing their hapless victim to dust. The sound of bones cracking quickly dissipated into the sound of something not unlike meal being ground with mortar and pestle.

The purple dragon stood motionlessly as the slabs completed their work and then returned to where they had been in the floor. A pile of dust gathered out of the air and returned to the floor, sitting in a neat pile on top of the musty old carpet.

"And to dust you shall return," he spoke to the silence of the fortress. Passing over the dust he padded silently up the dais and to the balcony behind the throne, looking out over the crystal covered landscape.

_I wonder if she chose it for the view, _he thought to himself before turning to a side passage and proceeding through fortress.

The black passages seemed to press on forever, dimly yet by whatever powered the crystals. The purple dragon seemed to glide down the hallway in complete silence. He paused at the first intersection passages, taking a brief moment to recall the fortress's layout. Swinging to the right, he passed more iron doors, some open, others closed. One or two were off their hinges and lying haphazardly on the ground or leaning against the door frames.

"Should be close," he whispered into the blackness. A scimitar lying in the middle of the hallway seemed to prove him right. A spear sat point down, broken halfway up the pole, its other half lying beside it and sundered forever.

He proceeded further down the hallway. A new double door greeted him, larger than the rest that were in the hallway, but not nearly as large as the throne room doors. A few carved runes above the door were unreadable to him, being the language of the apes. Next to the door was a counter extending from the wall, and a window shuttered with metal. Underneath was a large flap for passing items in and out of the room without opening the main doors.

The purple dragon reared up on his hind legs once more, and placed his paws on the door and began to push.

Somewhere above, a mechanical clank echoed down the hallway, followed by more rapid, less garish clanks. The doors began to open. Upon reaching their zenith, the creaking gears ground to a halt with one last great clank.

Entering, he found a great many weapons. Halberds, pikes, crossbows, long swords, scimitars, daggers, and many other forms of arms hanging from racks or neatly lying on shelves. Bushels of wooden sticks and feathers filled many wicker baskets along the opposite wall. Finally, at the rear of the room more weapons hung, yet these were different. These were not piled together, nor were they crowded. Each one hung on a separate rack, as if each were more precious than gold. Jewels and gems glittered in the hilts of swords and in the stock of the crossbows.

Elemental weapons of fire, ice, earth, and electricity, weapons that gave anyone an equal footing against the dragons. Aside from the fortress itself, these were the most precious tools around.

Spyro sighed in relief. None of the numerous weapons had been taken. The enemy had not turned his thoughts to this place…yet.

Spyro approached the rack of the prized weapons, sweeping them off their abodes with his tail. He arranged them into a pile, the metal chattered and tolled in protest as each arm was heaped, elemental crystals glittering in the dim light.

Opening his maw, he suddenly paused. Looking into the pile something caught his eye. It was a sword handle, far less crude than the others. Reaching down he grabbed the hilt gently with his teeth and pulled it free of the pile. The handle was long, definitely a two-handed weapon, with an elegantly curve in the handle and a crisscross pattern running its length. A red gem was fitted at the base of the blade. The curve continued into the blade, an inlay running the length of the graceful steel. A language that was also foreign to him was scribed into the inlay, but it was not rough and crude like the runes of the apes.

He set the blade down away from the pile, to be spared. Turning back to the other weapons he cracked his maw once more. Letting the inner fire forth, he spewed purple flames over the various arms, only stopping to take breaths of air. The steel began to glow, and the gems that powered the elemental aspects began to pop and shatter with little bursts of colored light and shards of crystal flying every which way.

The metal began to bend, unable to support its own weight. Any other materials had long been burned away. Finally, when nothing was left but a glowing pool of slag Spyro ceased the torrent. Cooling, it quickly turned into a black slag lump, nothing remaining of the weapons.

Turning on his heels, he left the armory still carrying the sword with his jaws. One small preventive step on the road to peace had been accomplished.

**I hope you liked the first chapter! All reviews are welcome. Also, I stated that I would go back and fix the first few chapters of Stormfront... Well an extreme case of chapter fix laziness has come over me and I haven't done it xD **


	2. Chapter 2 Not the Color Purple

**Chapter 2**

**Not the Color Purple**

After wandering the bereft hallways the purple dragon found himself in the upper levels of the dreaded fortress. Further down the hall the roof had collapsed for some unknown reason. A tiny stream of rain water ran down from the ceiling onto the pile of rubble beneath. A small pool of inky black water had formed. Some sort of grating formed a drain preventing the whole area from flooding. Lightning from outside flashed above blindingly after spending hours in the dim fortress.

Spyro proceeded, stepping into the small pool of cold water that didn't even cover a claw. The splashes echoed down the chamber. He began to climb over the rubble, and paused as the water dribbled over his face. His body and his senses went numb to the world. The purple dragon stood there motionless. The cool water running down his face reminded him of a past life. Flying through the waterfalls of Avalar, the green grass and fields of flowers and sweet smells, the lush forests filled with life, Sparx and… Cynder.

He tried to remember the last time he saw her smile, but the memory had long since faded. He remembered when he first awoke on the White Isle, unable to move due to his injuries; spending the next six months recovering enough to where he could stand, another year learning to walk, run and fly again. Unable to leave, forced to watch his former friends from a far, through the means the Chronicler and his friend Ignitus gave to him. His death had brought continued peace. He watched as a treaty was negotiated between Warfang and the colonies, watched as celebrations were had, and watched as everything in life went on for others while he sat rotting away, with no purpose in life, his secrecy paramount to his sanity.

At least he wasn't totally alone… but then again there was only so much one person could provide, especially when the immense duties of the Chronicler took precedent. He remembered turning to the books of the library for whatever solace they could provide. Everything and anything suited him, from long draconic epics to the most dull and dreary history of some begotten time and place. That was when the glimmer of light entered his life, a small bit of magic written down in some forgotten tome. It took him weeks to master it to the point he could do it in his sleep. It took a small amount of power to change his scales color. By infusing the spell with elemental energy of his choosing he could become any unremarkable color of dragon he chose. He had already put the new skill to good use on a number of occasions.

His mind jolted back to the here and now. He kicked a rather large rock over the grate that drained the water. If somebody wanted to use this place, he would make sure it would be a choice they would regret. Lighting flashed and lit the hallway before he turned the corner and left it behind. Passing some shattered remains of glass conduits he entered a familiar room. Hexagonal in shape and in the center was one of the technological ape marvels that lifted one up the tower.

The purple dragon remembered when he had to glide to the middle platform because his small wings couldn't lift his young dragon body. He allowed himself a small bit of satisfaction at just being able to step over the gap. Zapping one of the conduits that remained with a powerful jolt of electricity from his maw started the machinery. Gears deep below him ground once more into action, clanking and whining at their own effort. Black gothic stone passed by him as the elevator rose to the top.

The elevator ground to a halt as the purple dragon appeared at the top of the tower. Only an iron awning above shielded him from the now driving rain. A balcony behind him was large enough for an adult dragon to take flight. However, this was not the same tower that he had climbed so long ago as a young drake. There was an iron door, adorned with a likeness of adult Cynder's head protruding above it. The eyes glowed a sinister yellow. It felt as if those hate filled eyes he had seen so long ago were once again before him, watching him, testing him. Spyro stared into them, half expecting them to come to life in some sort of trap.

But they remain unmoved by his gaze. Undaunted, Spyro moved underneath the bust. The door had two imprints for large but slender dragon's paws. His own were larger than what he assumed Cynder's had been, and didn't fit inside the imprints. The door creaked open silently at his touch, unbidden by any force from him.

Entering, the room was not overly large. It was mostly filled with a dais of bedding located in the center, where the Terror had once retired to her nightmares. To the right were a few large armor chests, most of them open, a few with their lids removed entirely and lying haphazardly about the room. Spyro suspected they were once ornate, but rust and cobwebs had long put an end to any delusion of grandeur. Looking to the opposite side of the room there was a wash basin and over it hung a mirror. All and all a simple abode for the Terror of the Skies, which once wreaked untold amounts of havoc on the dragon realm.

The purple drake turned to leave the room, but something on the bedding caught his eye as he turned, a small stack of books, all of them with black binding. Padding over to the tower of leather, he pinched the first within his claws. He read the title, and then swatted the book away with his paw. It was one he had read back in the Chronicler's library.

I hated that one.

The next few proved equally uninteresting, and joined the first somewhere else in the room. Picking up the last one, he brushed the dust off of the binding with his wing. There was no title or author listed there. Opening it he flipped through a few pages, reading the draconic runes scrawled within. His purple eyes grew wider and wider as he read. He closed the book with a wing tip and grabbed it as gently with his maw as possible.

He exited Cynder's former abode and took flight from balcony across from the elevator.

The purple dragon glided down towards the front gate, over the black parapets and lesser towers. The drake kicked up a small cloud of faint blue dust as he landed, and then rushed over to where he hid his satchel some distance from the front gate behind one of the large crystals. Opening it, he placed the book inside, next to the sword that he had found earlier now wrapped in a cloth he had found on his way out.

It was definitely worth going back in, he thought to himself.

He dug through the bag once more, finding a large vial of deep crimson liquid. Opening it he drank from it, grimacing at the flavor, before replacing the stopper and returning it to the satchel.

He thought for a moment, having the urge to contact Ignitus now and inform him of his discovery, but a stray thought whispered to him not to do so within the fortress's shadow.

He fitted the satchel over one of his powerful shoulders and moved out from the field of crystals. The purple dragon returned to the main gate of the fortress, where he had first entered. Pressing his muscled side against the iron door it droned closed.

He admired the doors momentarily that stood much taller than he was a dragon could fly through them easily when fully opened. There was no decoration inlaid within them, serving as a final statement to any ancestor-forsaken prisoner that hope had died.

Cracking his maw and taking a deep breath he exhaled his internal fire. The purple dragon stepped closer and intensified the flame, turning from a pale yellow to a deep red. The stream of fire that emanated changed from a random splatter upon the gate to a precise point. Moving his head over the center line of the door, it wasn't long before the metal began to glow dimly. Seeing this, he intensified it once more, and drawing on the element only a purple dragon could bring forth naturally he added convexity. The flames turned a bright purple, and the door began to glow white under the intense heat.

A minute or so later the purple dragon stopped his labor and admired his handiwork. The metal still glowing brightly was conjoined, melted together in the intense heat.

It wouldn't keep any creature able to fly out of the fortress, but it would sure make moving supplies and personnel a pain if the front door was inoperable. The drake watched the metal begin to cool before deciding his work was finished.

He checked his satchel ensuring that it was secure, and then took off at a sprint down the road that led to the fortress. Spreading his wings he took flight, and was lost to the rain and clouds.

*.*.*

A boisterous, hearty laugh rang out across the room, followed by several patrons pounding their fists on the table and stamping their paws. The group of rowdy dragons then downed the liquid in the basins in front of them. One large burly fire dragon turned towards the bar.

"Butterburn! More ale!" he cried, followed by a loud hiccup. Several of his compatriots chuckled and also called, "More! Another round!"

A relatively small mole walked behind the bar, past many empty mugs, bowls and plates, all with bits of froth or scraps of food. He picked up a fresh basin from the cupboards and began to fill each from a large oak barrel.

An old homely voice cut through the banter. "Oi, Meakes, that's their last round, no more. If I have to drag their bums out like last week…"

The mole, Meakes, continued to fill the basins as he responded, "Yes, Mr. Butturburn."

"After they're cut off they'll leave… hopefully," he said as he picked up another dirty mug.

He finished filling the last of the basins with the frothy yellow liquid and began to bring them out to the table, passing Mr. Butturburn who was wiping down the counter. The inn owner was a round old earth drake, with a large, somewhat stubby tail, and great ram horns. Bony growths covered his shoulder like most earth dragons, and covered his lower jaw.

Meakes shuffled out from behind the bar, carrying a basin of ale in each hand, the odor of hops filling his nostrils. The little brown furred mole passed the dying embers of the fireplace, past some occupied tables with much quieter residents, before finding the ring of rowdy dragons.

A yellow electric dragon parted from his cushion to give him room to replace the basins, when a fire dragon across the table yelled in slurred speech.

"H'rry up with that ale!" He pounded a paw on the table, shaking it violently.

"Don't get your wings in a knot, Drac. You'll get your own soon enough," Meakes yelled back in his much higher voice, but to no avail. A raunchy joke had the whole table laughing so loud they hadn't even heard him. Picking up the used basins he turned and left quickly, apron flapping frantically, before his outburst had a chance to register.

He had nearly made it to the bar when the entrance bell suddenly rang causing him to nearly drop the basins.

Meakes glimpsed another fire dragon standing at the front bureau. The drake was definitely young, just entering his prime. "We'll be right with you," Meakes called, trying his best to sound polite as he turned he glimpsed a sickening scar on his side.

"I'll get him situated, Meakes." Butterburn said emerging from behind the bar.

The mole returned behind the bar. Mr. Butturburn was at the clerk's book and he couldn't help but hear the conversation as he filled the next set of basins with ale.

Mr. Butterburn opened the large book that sat on the podium and began, "Good evenin' young master. What may I do for you?"

"Just accommodations for the night and a hot meal," the fire drake replied.

"Of course. What name would that be under?" Butterburn replied, picking up a quill.

"Blaze."

"Payment is due in the mornin' Master… Blaze. It's a little past supper, but I'll see what I can scrounge from the kitchen for ya."

Meakes left the bar with his basins filled with the aromatic ale, passing the fire drake as he sat down.

It took him three more trips to get all of the dragons their ale. Returning to the bar he climbed onto a stool and began polishing the mugs and basins that Butterburn had been working on. The newcomer was sitting on the other side of the bar staring blankly.

Mr. Butterburn exited from the kitchen in the back, carrying a large platter in one paw and hobbling along on the other. "I know it isn't much, but this is what we had left. Enjoy. Meakes, get him something to wash it down with."

The fire drake's eyes seemed to light up at the sight of the beef shank that occupied the platter, and he began to consume it quite voraciously. Meakes hopped off his stool and filled yet another basin with ale. He placed it in the front of the fire dragon and returned to his stool while Mr. Butterburn attempted to start a conversation.

"So what are you passing through our little town for?"

The dragon looked up from his meal and began with a sigh, "Honestly… I don't really know."

"A wanderer eh? We get those every once in a while. Haven't found a place to settle down yet, can't find a purpose." The old earth dragon sat on his haunches and looked at the oak ceilings. "In fact I was like that meself once… but that was a long time ago. How long have you been traveling?"

The scarlet drake swallowed a large chunk of beef flesh, then answered, "Five or six years…"

The old earth dragon looked at him quizzically. "That long eh? You must have started young."

A burst of laugher paused their conversation until it abated.

"You… you could say that," Blaze answered and then took a sip of the ale from the basin.

Butterburn let him finish and seemed to examine the dragon on the other side of the table. "Wouldn't happen to have anything to do with that scar, would it?"

The fire drakes voice grew slightly cold. "I'd rather not talk about it."

The earth dragon recovered like a skilled diplomat. "Forgive me for my intrusion young master, I meant no offense. But as a word of advice, home is where the heart is."

"Oi! Can we get another round here?!" an electric dragon shouted across the room.

"Go home. We're closin' for the night," the old earth dragon calmly answered. Luckily most of the customers had left or drifted off to their chambers for the night.

Mr. Butterburn then turned to the mole. "Meakes, show Master Blaze here his room when he has finished eating."

A big burly fire drake pushed past tables and chairs to the bar, nearly falling over when he finally stopped. "Bu'burn, you gave that outsider shome. Why won't you give ush some more?"

The earth dragon stepped out from behind the bar. "I told you last week after your whole gang slept a hangover off in here."

The intoxicated Drac's mouth clearly twisted into a snarl. "We wantshh shome more. You owe ush for guarding the village ever'day."

The earth dragon shook his head. "No, Drac. You're cut off. Go home."

A few of his group shouted encouragements, mostly unintelligible due to their level of inebriation. Drac's eyes drifted over to the kegs of ale across the counter, and he began to climb over the bar.

"Drac, get down from there you buffoon."

Butterburn grabbed him by the tail, only to get kicked by his powerful back legs. The earth dragon doubled over onto a chair meant for moles and crushed it into splinters. Butterburn opened his eyes only to see the room spinning. When he finally gathered himself, Drac was on the floor pinned by another fire dragon: Blaze.

The dragon pushed his forepaw down on Drac's chest, flexing his considerable muscle. "Get lost."

Drac opened his mouth, tongue flopping to the side. He attempted to speak, but only managed to spit slobber over the floor. The inebriated group began to haphazardly make their way across the room, grunting threats and hollering for a fight, shouting, "Get him!" and "You'll pay for that!"

Butterburn's temper exploded at the sight of threatened violence in his precious inn, and he roared, "If ANY of you start a fight in my inn, I'll personally nail your tails to my front door!" He took up a position between the group of advancing dragons and Blaze, snarling furiously at them.

Meakes jumped at the sound of a voice close to him that said, "I think it'd be best if I was taken to my room now." In the commotion and yelling, Blaze had stepped off Drac and approached the mole.

"Uh-h…. Right this way," Meakes said, pointing to a side door. Butterburn was still yelling at the top of his lungs at the group of now cowed dragons.

Meakes led the dragon down the hallway lit by iron sconces. He passed a few rooms with oak doors that could in no way fit a dragon. Turning right, he entered another wing. Here the doors were far larger. Each door would allow five or six moles to pass abreast.

"Here we are," he whispered down the hallway, motioning to the door since he didn't actually have the strength to open it.

"Thanks." The red drake put one massive forepaw against the door and pushed it open, closing it behind him without another word.

Meakes sighed… He could still hear Butterburn yelling from here. The little mole was in for a long night.

**Sorry for the long wait everyone! I ran into an issue where I needed to re-think parts of the story. I came up with a much better ending in the 3rd book and I needed to make sure it worked. So I apologize for the wait. Next, at the end of May I'm going out of the country and will have no access to any technology of any sort until I get back. Africa, specifically Uganda is going to be a big thing. I will try to squeeze out a chapter or two before I leave. **

**I hope you enjoyed it! Reviews and comments appreciated. **


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